


Whoever Dies First, Wins

by Gargant



Category: Final Fantasy X
Genre: F/M, Family Issues, Gen, Implied Emotional Manipulation, Implied Self-Harm, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Original Character-centric, World Travel, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2019-08-28 20:18:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16730070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gargant/pseuds/Gargant
Summary: It's only now that he's begun his pilgrimage that he realises just how much he has to learn. About the world, about his family, and about his own intentions. | An original summoner tale set within the world of Final Fantasy X, exploring the things that shape us and the reasons we do what we do.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I had no idea this story would grow so much in the telling! I've known these characters for years, but something in this setting has drawn a lot out of them. It's been quite a journey, and I hope you can enjoy it with me. If you have questions, ask them! & Thank you for giving this story a chance c:

No acolyte is ever intended to enter the Cloister of Trials without guardians, but for Leonel an exception has been made. If the fayth refuses to accept him—if he fails to become a full-fledged summoner—it will be a horrible embarrassment for his uncle and aunt. Worse, it will give their political opponents leverage to scorn his aunt's petition to become the first female Maester of Yevon.

So a priest has taken him aside and quietly schooled him on what he must do to make his way through the Cloister's maze, and he has done exactly as he's been told. It feels like cheating, oily on his skin, but he understands why they want it to be this way. He's accepted it.

 

At least, he thought he had accepted it.

He doesn't know how long he's been here, sealed within the Chamber of the Fayth. It seems like hours. Sweat streaks his brow, his legs cramp and ache no matter how many times he shifts his stance. He prays, reciting words memorised from endless lessons, and still. Still the fayth fails to respond.

His mind has become a muddle of motivations,, each vying to outdo the other. Should he succeed in his pilgrimage, Spira will see a fleeting age of peace. It will be a chance for prosperity, a time to raise children and rebuild lost homes. A time for hope. That, surely, must be the heart of his journey. But, if he should succeed, he will pave the road for his aunt's nurtured ambitions. She will serve Yevon, and all of Spira, with faith and diligence—a different kind of saviour, but no less worthy for that.

Will he fight for the people, or for his aunt's intent? If those two things are truly halves of the same goal, then why does the question keep circling through his heart?

This was supposed to be simple; the point where his efforts would be rewarded. Now he finds himself questioning how he even came to be here, and what it is that he intends to do. The thought of emerging from the temple dazed and empty-handed is more than he can take.

He bows in prayer, or maybe the prayer folds him like a blow. His hands follow the flow of Yevon's teachings, but he has reached the end of what he has to offer. Leonel dips his head, dips so low that his forehead presses against the statue of the fayth set into the floor before him. The crystal is cool against his sweat-drenched fever—soothing, the touch of a child speaking wisdom beyond its years. " _Come on_ ," Leonel says, because he has nothing else left to say, and all formality has left him. "Can't I figure it out later? I'm ready for this. I won't fail. I'll come back when I have an answer, I promise, so _please_ , just lend me your strength until then."

And finally, something outside himself flutters in response.

 

When he steps back into the temple and falls under the seeking gaze of his uncle and aunt, Leonel slaps on a dizzy grateful smile and says nothing of what he has occurred.

He's a summoner now. What else matters? He's a summoner with a world to save and a price set in blood, and damn if he isn't going to see it through with a smile on his face.


	2. Departure

Leonel’s guardians have been arranged for him, financed by his uncle and selected from amongst the rank and file of Bevelle's warrior monks. On the eve of the pilgrimage he and his aunt attend the sacred halls in which the monks pray and train, and a priest meets them with the list of accepted applicants. Leonel knows that he's supposed to have the final say, but when his aunt takes the list and nods her approval he doesn't really mind. It's not like he knows any of these people anyway.

He's had nothing to do with the warrior order—not since Jasper left for Luca, anyway. He does still know one person here, but it's been over a year since they last saw each other. Almost two since they last  _ spoke _ . He doesn't expect to see Solus today.

The priest clears his throat. "There was one other applicant that I felt best to discuss with you. Your son aspires to undertake this pilgrimage."

He  _ hadn't  _ expected to see Solus.

His aunt raises her eyebrows. It seems to surprise her that she has a son to be speaking of. "No. Absolutely not. Leonel is to be High Summoner. We gave you Solus because this is his place. Can you find no other task for him? His lack of accolades hasn't gone unnoticed."

Leonel is no High Summoner yet. He's barely more than an acolyte. His aunt and the priest continue to speak, and Leonel wonders when his opinion might be called to question. He wonders if it's like this for all summoners.

Somehow, he doesn't think it is.

Maybe he doesn't  _ want  _ to travel with four people he doesn't know. He'd always assumed that Jasper would accompany him as a guardian, except then Jasper had accepted the Luca assignment and left without so much as an apology. But Solus is no Jasper. He isn't someone Leonel can consider a friend. Solus is barely worth asking for a favour, let alone expecting him to be a worthy guardian. His aunt is right. It's a bad idea.

The priest leads them into the next hallway, lined with grand portraits depicting great summoners of old. Each artwork is vibrant and solemn, each face aged a dozen years by artistic rendition. Leonel tries to imagine his own face up there, serious and adult and frowning in immortal discontent, but the image sits all wrong in his head. He dismisses the thought.

Five rows of monks stand across the width of the hall, masked in metal and uniformed in the vivid colours of their order. They're identical, Leonel thinks, until his guardians are announced and four men step forward. Behind them, one of the unchosen monks goes tense, and Leonel knows from the set of those broad shoulders and the clench of angered fists that the man he's looking at is his cousin. Should he maybe say something, he wonders—but Solus acts faster than Leonel thinks.

Solus's face hasn't changed much. When he tears his helmet off his dark hair is plastered against his forehead, his lip is curled in a furious snarl, and then he swings his arm back and throws his helm at the ground before them, a hard metallic strike against the beautiful stone floor. It might have struck his aunt's legs if Leonel were slower. Instead Leonel moves on reflex, ducking low and gathering the helmet into his hands before it can skid any closer.

The metal is cool, scratched and unpolished. Leonel turns it over in his hands, feeling the strange residual heat coming from within and hearing his aunt's aghast frustration beginning to snap behind him. When he looks up Solus is stalking away from the hall, ignoring every command being hollered toward his retreating back, and Leonel says the only thing he can think of that might make his cousin stop.

"I want him as my guardian!" He calls above the din, and when reverent attention finally falls upon the summoner in their midst he says it again, as clear as he can so there can be no misunderstanding. "I want Solus as my guardian. I accept his petition to accompany me on my pilgrimage. That's my right as a summoner."

The priest looks as though he agrees. He knows what the teachings have to say. His aunt knows as well, but she still spits acid at being overturned. "What benefit is there in an unfit guardian?"

Leonel looks at her, and then back at Solus. His cousin stands still, no longer walking away. But he hasn't turned around. His fists are still clenched, gloved fingers digging with enough force that Leonel finds himself grateful for the fabric shielding Solus's palms. 

What benefit? He hasn't thought that far ahead. But now his lessons come back to him, and he knows an answer he can give. Who cares if it isn't the real reason?

"You've picked good people to protect me, and I'm grateful. Thank you, all of you." And he draws his arms up in Yevon's prayer, a belated acknowledgement of the men willing to lay down their lives for his. Leonel bows, and wishes he had a better head for speaking in formalities. "But does Yevon not say that the greatest bond is that which exists between a summoner and a guardian? And that that bond should be nurtured over time, as husband to wife, mother to child, brother to brother? These men are brave, but I don't know them. If I would honour Yevon and defend Spira, then I would have a guardian who fulfills that oath."

He's done his best. The priest returns his prayer and gives a sage nod. His aunt looks as though she wants to be angry, but she's too perplexed. "There is nothing that binds you to him," she says, as cold as anything he's ever heard her say. Leonel thinks she might be right.

But he knows Solus. Not well, it’s true. But he knows that Solus wanted this journey, even if he doesn't know why. And no matter how strong or brave any of these men are, they can never be what Solus is. Leonel turns to Solus's back, and says the only thing that makes sense. "But he's my cousin. Right, cos?"

Solus doesn't reply. He stalks away in silence, with every eye upon him, and he doesn't give so much as a word of answer.

Leonel guesses he should have expected that. 

 

They leave at dawn, before the city comes alive with those who might have wished to see him on his way. Even so there's a small crowd, their cheers and prayers kept unnaturally subdued by the presence of his uncle and aunt. Leonel bows to the people of Bevelle, bows to the city that has been his home, and finally bows deeply to the people who raised him—the aunt and uncle who took him in when he had no place else to go.

Leonel knows better than to try and scan the crowd for a friendly face. Even if Solus  _ had _ shown up, he sure as hell wouldn't be friendly about it.

This isn't a final farewell. His pilgrimage will first take him south, over land and sea to the temples of Djose, Kilika and far-off Besaid. Then he will have to retrace his steps, passing north beyond Bevelle to the frozen temple of Macalania. And after that—well. After that he will return to Bevelle and fulfill his promise to the fayth. He will cross the green plains of the Calm Lands, submit himself before the shadow of Gagazet, and then climb his way to the ruins of Zanarkand.

And all of this he will do with four strangers at his side.

They've been introduced to him now. Agwe and Roje and Brantley and Javel. But beneath their featureless helmets he has no way to place a face to each name, and the whole thing leaves him cold in a way he doesn't know how to explain.

The crowd and the city recedes behind them as they march down Bevelle's grand bridge. March feels like the only word for it, with booted feet stamping out an even rhythm to either side of him. It's an escort that leaves him feeling more prisoner than protected, but the discomfort only makes him hold his head higher. He's a summoner now. The road will grow easier with time. Until then he'll keep on smiling, even if no one's smiling with him.

 

Civilization gives way around them, the chill of Macalania's forest slowly beginning to seep into their surroundings. The soil takes on a tinge of blue, then the leaves, until finally the world becomes crystalline and Leonel doesn't recognise anything anymore. He has never been allowed to leave the city, has no memories of his life before his aunt agreed to take him in. To think that such beauty lay just beyond Bevelle's gilded walls is almost impossible to believe.

They won't be here long. Soon the landscape will change again, the roll of thunder will grow to enfold them in its ceaseless grip, and they will find themselves upon the deadly Thunder Plains. It hardly seems fair that his pilgrimage should have to start with something so dangerous. Unwittingly, the thought of it slows his step.

"Stay close, my Lord Summoner," One of his guardians commands, and Leonel wonders how long it will be before he can tell their voices apart. But he picks up his pace and flashes another appreciative smile, determined not to appear weak in front of these men—except then he turns his gaze to the road ahead and he halts, startled. His guardians see it too and draw in tight around him. As though the man waiting for them is somehow a danger. As though he has something to fear from his cousin Solus.

"It's fine—" Leonel starts to say as his guardians collectively draw their swords, but one of them thrusts an arm out in front of him and he almost swallows his tongue.

"Stay back," He's told gruffly, like a parent scolding a child. Leonel doesn't quite mean to make a face, but it comes out anyway. Up ahead, he imagines that Solus must be laughing at him being pushed around so easily.

But Solus isn't laughing. Instead he's drawn his own sword, a cumbersome two-handed blade, and Leonel grips the arm of the nearest guardian and insists again, "It's okay. Put down your weapons."

No one moves. Leonel can see now that Solus has forsaken the uniform bestowed on him by the warrior monks. Instead he's dressed in layers of metal and leather, dark on dark. Warm clothing, suited for harsh terrain and long battle. Clothing intended to last.

"Your cousin fled the barracks last night, after he dared to shame himself before you and your esteemed aunt," his guardian tells him. Leonel lessens his grip. "If he refuses to return to Bevelle to answer for this behaviour, he will be excommunicated."

"I didn't flee," Solus grits. He looks as though he has more to say, but the words are clogged up in him. Leonel can't relate— _ his  _ words spill out in an irritable rush.

"Excommunicated for  _ what _ ? He's not in Bevelle because he's with  _ me,  _ just like he's meant to be. He's my guardian. I asked for this! You were all there! Are you not aware of his petition to accompany this pilgrimage?" Two of his guardians are looking at him now, their expressions concealed within their metal helms. Leonel knows he has to treat these people with respect. These are men willing to die in his name. He can't be rolling his eyes at them. But why is everyone being so  _ dense _ about this? "Solus wants to be my guardian. That's why he's here. Same as you. What else matters, right?"

He raises his hands disarmingly, gives them all his warmest friendliest smile. This, too, is what being a summoner is all about. Leonel looks at Solus. Tilts his head in a shrug. "Right?"

For a second he thinks that Solus is going to let him down. It wouldn't be the first time. But slowly, so slowly, Solus lifts his sword and angles it carefully back into the scabbard strapped across his back. "Let's go," He says, and turns his back, and leads the way. Leonel follows without question, hesitation shoved aside, and doesn't stop to wonder what might hide behind the looks that pass between his warrior monk guardians.


	3. Thunder Plains, Two Sleeps

The Thunder Plains are every bit as awful as Leonel had imagined, and much, much worse.

Lightning strikes so close to their group that Leonel swears his hair stands up from his head. The air seems to crackle with each lethal bolt, the thunder booming constant and cacophonous and always right overhead. And the field is thick with fiends.

His guardians battle with careful efficiency. Leonel can't fault anything in the way that they move as a unit, except to say that they're all too much the same. It's all he can do to juggle his priorities, healing those who need it and striking elemental attacks at any fiend that finds itself too close. He remembers when he, too, used to fight with a blade, before his aunt had deemed it unsuitable for a future summoner.

Back then, he and Solus used to spar. He'd been jealous of how easy his cousin could lift a sword and shield; how he never seemed to be the one who'd get tired first. Now he watches Solus cleave his way through fiends clad in thick leathery shells of armour, and realises that maybe he's still kind of jealous after all.

But Solus never used to guard himself properly, and years of tutelage with the warrior monks doesn't seem to have changed a thing. Leonel ducks low and casts out his healing magic, and Solus just throws himself straight into the next enemy and the next sickeningly avoidable blow.

"Look after yourself," Solus spits at him between attacks, and Leonel has no idea how Solus makes it sound so much like an insult but it has him wondering why he ever thought this could be a good idea.

" _ You _ try and pay attention for once," He snaps back, "And don't get pissy with me. You're only here because I said you could be."

The peeling thunder almost drowns out the sharpness of Solus's answer. "I'm not your fucking charity, and I don't need your fucking permission."

And Leonel wants to tell him just how wrong he is, damn him, but then the fiends are upon them again.

 

They all six seek refuge beneath a lightning rod tower. The plains still stretch out before them, no clear end in sight, and Leonel doesn't even know what time of day it is any more—the sky is black and clouded, the same as it will always be out here amidst the endless storm.

Solus is pissing him off, but he doesn't want to keep talking at metal faces that only refer to him as Lord Summoner, so he sidles over to his cousin's side and mutters, "This is the worst place I've ever seen."

Solus doesn't even look at him. "You've never left Bevelle."

"Neither have you," Leonel throws back, and he's pretty sure that's true until Solus casts him a short-tempered scowl. "Have you?"

For a second he doesn't think Solus is going to bother answering. But then he does, his voice hard and level. "I've been south before. There are worse places."

Worse than  _ this _ ? Leonel doesn't mean to be discouraged so soon, but it's only Solus watching him just now so it doesn't really matter if he lets it show, does it? He sighs and rubs a hand through his hair, feeling the sting of unwelcome static. "Remind me why I agreed to this again?"

"It was your idea," Solus replies, and there's something so accusatory and acidic in his words that Leonel actually startles; and Solus seems to catch that, because when he speaks again his voice has cooled right back to dull distant professionalism. "There's an Al Bhed shop not far. The monks won't like it, but they'll do what you say."

And then Solus sets his shoulders forward and walks back into the storm, and his wild stupid cousin can't survive out there alone so Leonel has no choice but to motion for his other guardians to follow.

 

The Al Bhed rest stop is actually where Solus said it would be, and his other guardian's react exactly as Solus said they would; even so, Leonel insists. The storm won't stop, he knows. The plains will be just as dangerous tomorrow as they are right now. But this morning he woke in his childhood home with his aunt's pride pressed up all around him, and now he stands here with four and a half strangers for company and he feels like he's already a million miles from anything that seems familiar, and if it's petty to want a bed for sleeping and some time alone to collect his thoughts then damn it, he's going to be petty.

So in the end they yield. Even through their faceless helmets Leonel can feel the frustration emanating from his four assigned guardians, and he feels bad about that. Solus is the last to step inside, his eyes fixed on the men he used to serve alongside, and Leonel thinks that Solus, too, can sense their frustration. Except he doesn't think Solus feels too bad about it.

His cousin really is a prick.

 

It's late afternoon the next day before they finally reach the winding maze of roots that marks their way into Guadosalam. Leonel doesn't think he's ever seen a place so incredible in his life, though he imagines anywhere might seem idyllic after the misery of the plains.

It may be too late in the day to set out upon the next leg of their journey, but he is still a summoner and must still perform a summoner's duty. The Guado have only recently come to embrace Yevon, so Leonel makes an extra effort to offer prayers and blessings and attention to any that would have it of him. Most importantly, he smiles. He smiles at the curiosity of the Guado children, he smiles at those who praise his courage and place their hopes like laurels upon his head. His guardians offer nothing, but Leonel gives everything that he can.

The Guado provide them lodgings in the mansion belonging to their Lord, a wizened old Guado named Tysl who greets them with ponderous dignity and treats them to a feast of sumptuous fruits and braised meats. Over the dinner table his warrior guardians finally remove their helmets, and Leonel jumps at the opportunity of seeing their eyes and faces, trying his best to burn them all into memory before they disappear back into the blankness of their uniformed order. Brantley has scruffy hair that's even blonder than his own, and Javel looks almost old enough to be a grandfather. Agwe seems a veteran despite his young years, with a splitting scar along his lip that seems to have him favouring softer foods. And Roje—looks away, always looks away when Leonel tries to smile at him. The moment their meal is concluded he jams his helmet back on, and the other three follow suit.

When it comes time to retire to their rooms, Solus interrupts. "I'll stay at the Inn," he says, and then he goes to leave. No apology to their host, no explanation offered to his summoner. Leonel grabs after him, catching hold of Solus's arm and prepared to speak—but Solus whips around so sharply that Leonel staggers. " _ Don't touch me _ ," His cousin snaps out, and his voice echoes through the vaulted entrance hall. And then he's gone, storming away, and Leonel thinks he's seen more of his cousin's retreating back than he'll ever know what to do with.

It falls to  _ him _ to apologise for Solus, just as it has so many times before. But Lord Tysl dismisses the slight with one sweeping motion of his spindly Guado hands, and then they're allowed to bed, and rest. Leonel is given a room to himself, free of faceless guardians and ill-tempered cousins and blessedly free of violent ceaseless storms. He closes his eyes beneath the watchful gaze of ancient Guado portraits, and promises himself the better days are still to come.

It's going to get easier. It has to.


	4. The Moonflow, and South

The sun rises, which gives him little choice but to do the same.

Leonel and his guardians break their fast, offer Lord Tysl their gratitude, and set their path south once more. Solus is there to greet them on the edge of Guadosalam's roots. He brings no explanation, no apology—he doesn't even look rested. The monks give Solus a wide berth, and Leonel lets them. There doesn't seem much point in fishing for answers, so instead he thanks them all for the day ahead and bids them set out.

But as they make to leave one of his guardians surprises him—Agwe, he thinks it is, echoing from within his helm. "My Lord Summoner," He says, and the other monks turn in unison at the sound of one of their own. "Before we depart, have you reason to visit the Farplane? You shouldn't assume another chance."

"Watch what you say!" Another of his guardians blurts, aghast, but Leonel shakes his head and waves the notion away. Agwe's right. Even with the protection of these men, any day could be his last. He may not get a second opportunity. But the Farplane? Everything he knows of the Farplane has come from careful education. It is a place where the living can make peace with the departed souls of those they have loved. The destination of those guided to their final rest. Guided by summoners.

His first Sending. He prays that the day might never arrive.

But should he have reason to visit? "No," He says slowly, and when he hears the uncertainty in his voice he shakes his head and shields himself with temple formalities. "Thank you for your consideration, but that won't be necessary. I have no one to see there." Belatedly he realises his own short-sightedness, raising a hand in offering; "But if any of  _ you  _ wanted to..."

It's a little difficult to say it out loud. Thankfully his guardians each shake their heads in turn, and then they’re finally free to depart. He sees Agwe lean close to the monk that had sounded so shocked, sharing some private word, but before Leonel has time to wonder he sees that Solus is looking at him. Frowning—of course—except that the cast to his expression lacks something. Anger? Leonel can't make sense of it, except that it makes him feel as though he's forgetting something. It sits uncomfortable in him, until  _ he's _ the one scowling and stalking away. Solus’s footfalls drop into step behind him.

 

The road doesn't grow easy, but it  _ does _ grow easier. Fiends still menace their path, but they are fewer now, and less volatile. The sky is bright and clear above the gentle canopy that rustles overhead, and the road itself is well-defended by Guado and Bevelle both. His monks exchange quick greetings with their comrades when groups pass by, and Leonel accepts prayers and offerings from any that choose to give.

That night they make camp outdoors for the first time, set beneath a bough of trees to the roadside. His guardians insist on taking turns keeping watch, but when Leonel offers to take part he's dismissed out of hand. "You need to rest, My Lord," one of them says, and then they return to assigning their order without so much as waiting for his reply.

He hates having to accept this. He doesn't know how he managed to become so powerless in such a position of power.

But it's the way of things. His aunt would have him dignified and austere, well-protected and accommodated for at every available turn. So Leonel sits on the edge of the camp and stares off into the woodlands and tells himself how lucky he is to be here. He sleeps as much as he's able, and keeps to himself whenever the woodlands manage to wake him. When he stirs in the night to the sound of his guardians speaking in low, humoured voices, he tells himself it doesn't bother him.

Of course they would prefer one another's company to his. He can't blame them for that. What use is there in befriending a dead man?

Early in the morning he wakes to the sight of Solus emerging from the woods. His cousin is already dressed for the day, tightening the straps of his gauntlets with grit teeth—when he notices that Leonel is watching him he pauses, a moment of raw surprise softening his face. It reminds Leonel so much of when Solus still lived with them that he catches himself saying, "Cos," before he even knows what he means to say next, but then Solus's expression shutters closed, black and hard. He walks away, and Leonel sighs, lies back down, and doesn’t bother saying anything else.

What use is there in a dead man befriending anyone?

 

After that he swears to keep to himself and speak only when there's a need for it. It's a vow that lasts him barely half a day, upended by the sight of the Moonflow.

It flows out before them like molten silver, a mirror in motion that spans from shore to shore and snatches Leonel's breath away from the first moment he sees it. The bank is awash with blooming lilies, and above it all spiral streams of gleaming pyreflies, refraction upon reflection and all mirrored back on itself again. He's been told how phenomenal it is to cross the Moonflow after dusk, with the midnight air brought to life with hundreds of coiling rainbow trails. It takes every inch of his self-control to keep from suggesting they wait to see it.

"When we return," He says instead, feeling like it's the first personal thought he's expressed in days, "Let's make sure it's dark. It'll be worth seeing, don't you think?"

"As you wish, my Lord Summoner," someone replies, and no one else responds. It's sobering—rottenly so. Leonel wonders what would happen if he tossed all dignity aside and threw a child's tantrum—kicked and screamed and refused to budge until he'd had his own way and they'd all of them set up camp right there to stay and watch the pyreflies dance. He's got a bad feeling nothing would change.  _ Yes, Lord Summoner. Of course, Lord Summoner. Whatever you want, Lord Summoner _ .

_ Whatever you want. _

It reminds him starkly of Bevelle, of kneeling in the Chamber of the Fayth and finding himself without an answer.  _ It was your idea _ , Solus had said to him back on the Thunder Plains, said it like the words were a crime, and Leonel... he doesn't know what he was thinking any more.

He doesn't know how this all spiraled out of his hands so quickly. Hadn't he been raised for this? Hadn't he always known that this was what he wanted? He is prepared to die, he  _ is _ , and Spira deserves whatever chance he can give it. This time, maybe  _ this time _ , Sin won't come back. He believes all that. So why does this journey feel so much like winding in circles instead of marching toward fate?

Why doesn't he know what he wants?

 

The Shoopuf helps a little. Leonel's pretty sure that even the monks enjoy themselves, something relaxed and amused rolling off them even with their expressions concealed. Solus doesn't sit down, but his gaze fixes out across the rippling water and he doesn't look pissed off for a change. After a while, Leonel dares to stand up and join him.

"Have you been here before?" He asks, and Solus surprises him by answering right away.

"Only the north bank."

"So this is a first for both of us, huh!" Leonel delights, more relieved than he'd have expected to find himself finally having something in common with someone again. Solus looks at him like he's being an idiot, but at least he doesn't seem likely to make a show of it. Instead he adjusts the sword at his back, and nods onwards toward the nearing shoreline.

"It won't be far to Djose from here. We can make it by nightfall. Are you ready?"

From someone else, it might have sounded like concern. From Solus it just sounds like a guardian checking after his summoner. But at least it isn't disinterested; at least it's somewhere on the edge of personal. Leonel shrugs. "Better hope so, right?"

And he swears that, just for a second, Solus actually smirks.


	5. The Djose Temple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading up to this point! Made a breakthrough in my writing of a later scene today, so it seems the appropriate time to share a next chapter. More coming soon!

Dusk is the aim, but it's late into the night by the time they actually reach the Djose Temple, and the fiends have been coming at them in force. Leonel can't remember ever feeling so eager to visit the temples back in Bevelle, but here they're offered lodging and respite and he accepts it eagerly on behalf of himself and his guardians.

Right away, Solus declines. There's a rest stop just outside the temple—he'll sleep there instead. Leonel doesn't even try to argue this time, though it twists him up to see his cousin still holding him at a distance. The rest of his guardians keep their thoughts well guarded, as ever, and safe within the confines of the temple they each split into their own set groups—Solus the disgraced, the Warrior Monks of Bevelle, and Lord Summoner Leonel.

It's a division that occupies his thoughts well past the point of reason, until he finds himself rising from his bed in the middle of the night and returning to the heart of the temple. If he can not find the answers within himself, might he at least turn himself over to the guidance of Yevon? He can pray here, pray at the feet of the High Summoners who have succeeded before him, and let their wisdom aid him where his own faith has left him faltering and frustrated.

That's the plan, anyway. Instead he steps into the central hall of the temple and, through the gloomy shadows cast by torchlight, he sees someone else already seated beneath the great statues.

Solus isn't praying. His sword is lain flat over his crossed legs, his hands moving in methodical sweeps along the length of the blade. He isn't armoured, save for a battered leather jerkin that leaves his shoulders and arms bare beneath the torchlight. Leonel doesn't really mean to admire the movement of muscle, but it's difficult not to—each smooth motion is carried through with stern precision, as careful and set as any Yevon-sanctioned machina.

Leonel blinks, and looks again. Scars. He's never seen his cousin like this before, and the sight of it knocks something out of him. Solus is careless in battle, anyone who's ever seen him fight can tell that much, but the scars that run and criss-cross the length of his arms seem to go far beyond the realm of simple carelessness. Is this what it means to be a warrior monk? Are Brentley and Roje and the others, are each of his protectors all so marked from a lifetime of hardship?

It may be better not to approach, but he can't help himself. Solus's head snaps up when he hears the sound of footfalls, and then he jerks back and raises himself to standing when he recognises Leonel, a grim snarl on his face as though he expects—something. His wrists are bandaged, the same tight bindings that Leonel recognises from Solus's gauntlets. In the low light it almost looks as though the fabric has stained. Leonel swallows, surprised to find his mouth so dry. Flicks his gaze away from that uncomfortable sight; ignores the look of dull resentment that clouds over his cousin's face.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" Leonel says dumbly, because now he's come this far he has to say  _ something _ but he hasn't really prepared for this. Solus looks like he might hit back with something harsh so Leonel speaks again quickly, desperate for this to be a conversation and not another pointless fight. "But I should be too, right? You don't have to tell me."

But apparently Solus hadn't intended to. "I don't care what you do," Is all he replies, reaching down to retrieve his scabbard from where he's set it aside. And Leonel grits his teeth.

This might be what does it, he thinks. This might be the moment where he finally loses his temper. It shines before him like some treasure that he knows to be cursed, and even so he reaches out and takes it—even so, he prods for more. "Of course you don't. You don't care about  _ anything _ , do you? Listen to yourself. What kind of guardian says something like that? Do you know how lucky you are I even let you come? I could have just—"

"Left me behind? Dismissed me from your Lordly service?" When Solus stands back up, sword and sheath both in hand, his smile is vicious and sickle-thin. It doesn't belong on him. None of this does. "Do you think I'm here because  _ anyone  _ said so? They had their chance to send me with you and they told me no. Say whatever you want. Tell me you want me gone." Like it's some foregone conclusion. Like he's so certain that must be what Leonel—what  _ everyone _ —wants. "I'm not part of their fucking system any more, and I'm not your fucking soldier to follow your fucking orders."

"But you're my _guardian_ ," Leonel snaps back, and he didn't realise just how much he missed sparring until right this second. What he wouldn't give to be able to solve this with blunted swords and a place to swing them—to solve this with bruises and tears instead of whatever this mess has become. "What else have you been doing out here if you haven't been guarding me? What are you even doing here?" That catches in him, pulls right at the centre of everything so he can't keep the next words from coming out; " _What the hell do you_ _want_?"

"The same thing I've always wanted," Solus grits, and he goes to leave. To walk away again, just like he keeps doing. Just like he's done this whole journey, like he's done his whole damn life. And Leonel won't have it any more. Not here, not again, not now.

"I'm going in there," Leonel shouts after him, and jabs one finger up the stairs at the ornate door beyond. "I'm going, right now. I'm going to the fayth. I'm going to meet the next aeon. Are you coming or not?"

_ That _ gets his attention. Solus wheels around, his expression—taut. Contained. "Don't," He says, but he doesn't sound convinced. Leonel swells.

"They'll all hate it if we go without them. Come on, cos. Let's just do it. Come on!" And he turns and runs up the stairs, feeling so much like a child again except for the hammering in his chest. There are more feelings tied up in him than he even knows how to make sense of, anger and frustration and hope, and if Solus doesn't follow then Leonel doesn't know if he'll ever come back from this. From any of it.

The Cloister of Trials looms like a herald before him. This time he won't have instruction. A true trial, the way it was always supposed to be. Maybe  _ this _ will be his first true test. One he's mapped out for himself, undertaken on his own terms.

"Leonel!" He hears Solus yell, and if they keep on like this then someone will hear them and ruin everything.

"We don't need them," Leonel calls back, and he's startled to find himself believing it. "We can do anything. We'll beat Sin."

And Solus laughs. All of it steeped in bitterness, hard and cold, the sound of it reverberating around the temple like some kind of sacrilege. It isn't friendship. It isn't love. But when Solus mounts the stairs and joins him, Leonel thinks it will do.

For now, at least, it's what he wants.

 

He'd imagined it would be more difficult than this, but with the two of them working side by side everything seems to come together. They barely even have to speak with one another; instead they communicate with looks, with nods and waves and gestures, and between them the electrified puzzles of the Cloister fall one by one into place. By the end of it Leonel is grinning, feeling more alive and more himself than he has since before departing Bevelle.  _ This _ is what he imagined his pilgrimage would be—the rush of success and the company of friends. Triumphs to be shared with a smile.

"Catch!" Leonel calls, and throws the last Djose Sphere with his best Blitzer's pitch—Solus, damn him, snatches it out of the air like it's easy.

"You haven't gotten better," He says, and maybe the  _ sound  _ of it isn't there but Leonel swears that Solus is laughing at him.

"I haven't had anyone to practice with!" He bites back, because really, who was he going to play with after Solus went away? His aunt had quickly been rid of their Blitzball after Solus was sent to the monks, calling it an unsuitable distraction. "You reckon we can watch a game when we reach Luca? Maybe they'll give us free tickets. A summoner and his guardians ought to get some privileges, right, cos?"

"Hurry up," Is all Solus replies, but he doesn't dismiss the idea, and Leonel grins all the brighter.

 

Entering the Chamber of the Fayth, though... it's difficult to keep smiling then.

He leaves Solus to wait outside. Only summoners are permitted to set foot before the fayth. He'll only have himself to depend on for this, and memories of his struggle in Bevelle come rushing back at the sound of the heavy stone door grinding closed behind him.

The fayth of Bevelle—Bahamut's fayth—had hesitated to answer him. Because he lacked the strength required to be a successful summoner? Because his reasons were too unclear, muddied by confused loyalties? Or something different, something more innate, beyond his ability to understand? He still doesn't know. He has vowed to return to Bevelle with an answer, but now that he's standing here, alone and unguided, he's not sure he even remembers what question he's supposed to be finding an answer  _ to _ .

Why is he here? What does he want to accomplish? Who is he fighting for?

Too much to think about. Leonel dips to his knees before the crystalline statue of Djose's fayth and lets the sounds of the temple draw him toward his task. The Hymn of the Fayth seems to thrum through the very foundations of this sacred place, ancient and familiar; soothing to any child of Yevon, he thinks. And it soothes him now, until he finds the melody humming through his lips like a breathless mantra, steadying and reassuring. His hands move in prayer, and he focuses himself on every motion of it even though the shapes are as known to him as his own blood and flesh.

_ I'm here _ , he thinks, and the silence of his thoughts seems loud in this precious sanctified space.  _ That's worth something. I know it is. I'm not giving up. _

He was always pretty sure the fayth didn't have voices. That they couldn't speak. So he can't explain the sense of sound that seems to soften the air before him; formless, intangible. It's amused, warm and ironic and sad, and suddenly the knowledge of Ixion rushes over any other thought he has, a brilliant flood of  _ knowing _ , and the world seems to pull away all at once as the understanding overwhelms him.

 

When he wakes up he's sprawled across the fayth statue, limbs aching discomfort and his face pressed unpleasantly against the cold crystal set deep into the floor of the chamber. Leonel groans at every sensation of it, the cramp of his muscles and the disconcerting loss of time, but even so something in him rises up. Ixion. His second aeon, on his own terms. No struggle, no doubt. Just the prayer, the call, the response. The summoner and the fayth.

So he really  _ is _ a summoner, then.

He doesn't know how long he's been in here, and when he climbs back to his feet his head swims with bone-deep exhaustion. He still hasn't slept since they reached Djose, not  _ really _ , and the need for rest comes back at him like a hammerblow. Bed. That's what he needs. And Solus must need it too, Leonel thinks, as he halfway staggers back toward that great stone door. Back to where his cousin is still waiting.

Only, when he emerges from the Chamber of the Fayth, all five of his guardians are present.  Solus has his sword drawn and raised, his stance rigid and taut. Prepared. Before him are arrayed the warrior monks, each with their own weapons drawn, and Leonel doesn't have to see their expressions to understand the tension and anger that floods the room before him.

"My Lord Summoner!" One of them calls, sounding more furious than relieved. "What is the meaning of this?"

It seems like the wrong question, somehow, but Leonel's too muddled up with exhaustion and confusion to think much on the instinct. "How did you know where to find us?" He asks instead, and  _ that's _ the wrong question too. He should be apologising for causing them concern, for disrespecting their efforts and stepping outside of tradition; he shakes his head and stumbles a few steps closer, wishing he could place a steadying hand on—someone.

"The rock," Solus mutters, not even looking at him, and Leonel blinks stupidly before it clicks into place. The Djose Temple is set in the heart of the Mushroom Rock—and when a summoner prays to the fayth, that rock bursts open in an expulsion of electrical charge. Leonel can only imagine the kind of sound that would make, and the kind of startled horror that must have run through his guardians when they discovered their summoner to be missing.

"Did he bring you here against your will?" The same monk speaks again, and it takes Leonel a moment to realise that they're speaking about Solus.

"Of course not." He wants to rolls his eyes at the mere thought of it, barely suppresses the desire. It won't do to be laughing, and especially not right now. "Why would he do that?"

Ahead of him Solus tightens his grip upon his sword, a whispering shift of leather moving against leather. Trust his cousin to voice agreement without using words; trust his stupid cousin to make any situation ever more tense than it needs to be. Why are weapons drawn? What's been happening out here?

"I came because I needed to. The fayth called to me." It's a lie, a bare-faced lie, but no one will accuse a summoner of such things.  _ Yevon forgive me _ , Leonel thinks, but carries the deception forward. "It called, and... I couldn't rest. I had to answer. Solus saw that I was going to enter the Trial and followed me. Without him I would have been here alone. Blame me, if someone must be blamed. He was only protecting me."

"If that was his intent, then he should have sought us out," Another monk retorts, and Leonel thinks he recognises the voice as Roje. That monk takes a step forward, and though he does not point his blade directly at Solus the frustration of his words makes his feelings clear. "My Lord, he is not fit to be your guardian, no more than he was fit to serve among our order. Please, for the sake of your pilgrimage, dismiss him from your service."

All of them talking as though Solus isn't standing right in front of them—as if Solus has no words or means to defend his own actions. "I can dismiss my-fucking- _ self _ ," His cousin growls, and without another hint of warning he sweeps his sword down in a violent arc. It falls short of any target, and Leonel can recognise that it's supposed to; the monks jerk aside, and Solus stalks past them all. Carving his own path, just as he's been doing this entire journey.

"Cos—" Leonel starts, and tries to follow, but he moves too suddenly for a body still steeped in exhaustion and the touch of the fayth. The dizzying flood makes the room spin, and he lurches sharply to one side, grasping at the wall to keep himself from falling.

"My Lord!" Someone says, and then he has four sets of armoured hands reaching out to support him and  _ damn _ but he doesn't want any of them. He doesn't want anonymous hands attached to anonymous shields, anonymous swords and anonymous featureless faces. Leonel squeezes his eyes tight against them all, raises his head, and then looks. And across the room, drawn by the commotion, Solus is looking back at him. His cousin's face is clouded, almost as blank as the men that surround him. It's hard to believe that, just hours ago, they were almost smiling together.

"We leave tomorrow," Leonel tells him, and promises himself that he will find some way to mend this rift that has opened between his guardians. That he will make things right by all of them, learn their faces and their habits and where things all went wrong, and find some way to make them return his smiles. He'll be the summoner that brings hope back to Spira, and he'll do it by starting with these people right here in front of him. "Tomorrow," He repeats again, and Solus nods, hefts his sword and walks away.


	6. The Road to Mi'ihen, Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long wait—thank you for reading this far! Today, everything changes.

Despite everything, Leonel manages to sleep late into the morning. It means a slower start than they would have liked, but with Ixion already secured they still come out ahead of their original schedule, so Leonel tries not to think too harshly of himself for it.

And his guardians can't be in _that_ much of a rush to leave—before he's finished getting ready, one of them comes to speak with him.

Leonel can't hide his surprise when Brantley steps into the room, carefully closing the door behind him and placing his helmet aside on the tabletop before raising his hands in prayer. "My Lord Summoner," He says, straightening, and then he gives a rueful little smile that has Leonel all the more startled. "Might I speak with you before we depart?"

"Of course!" Leonel replies immediately, and though the room has no chairs the two of them take kneeling seats upon the cushioned floor, facing one another. _This is it_ , Leonel thinks, hopes, wills with all his being. _This is where I turn things around. It's all going to change from here._

When Brantley still looks uncomfortable Leonel shrugs and smiles. "You know, I'd be much happier if you just called me by my name. You're Brantley, and I'm Leonel. Tell me what's up."

Brantley's snort of laughter is poorly contained, his returning smile halfhearted and subdued. "I don't know if you would be so accommodating if you knew what I had to say, my Lord."

Somehow, just that is enough for Leonel to figure it out. 

"It's about Solus, right?" Now that they've come to it it seems obvious. Leonel makes sure to keep his expression level, open and approachable. "What _happened_ last night? When I arrived you all looked about ready to attack each other."

"I hope it would never have come to that," Brantley replies, and now his expression is solemn, his brow knit in consternation. Getting to the point. "But with Solus, who can say? My Lord—Leonel. We all admire your commitment to your family. No one would expect any different. But we have to ask you again—for the sake of this pilgrimage—please, dismiss him from your service."

"What makes you think he'd go if I told him to?" Leonel catches himself muttering, and as soon as the words have left him he regrets them. It's no way to build bridges, no way to engender trust between any of them, and when Brantley's palm slaps down on the cushions between them Leonel can't call himself surprised by the reaction.

"It's _because_ he refuses to heed you that he must be sent back to face trial at the palace of St. Bevelle! He's unpredictable, he's brash, he refuses to co-operate with any of us, he—"

"He's a real piece of work, I get it!" And Leonel doesn't mean to snap, he really doesn't. _But..._ "But every day we've travelled, he's risked his life to keep me safe. I've watched him battle fiends three times his size without hesitating. Isn't that what anyone would want in a guardian? He's a jerk, I get it, he's a real asshole, but he's doing what he's supposed to do. He's keeping me alive."

"He's throwing himself into danger without any regard at all," Brantley counters. "Is that really the same thing?"

"As far as protecting Spira's future is concerned, it is."

Brantley stares at him, disagreement plain on his face, and Leonel stares right back without giving a single inch. He's spent too much of this journey giving in to other people. From now on things are going to go the way he wants them to or they aren't going to go at all. But when Brantley finally looks away and makes as if to stand and leave, disappointment venting through his teeth, Leonel leans out and touches his sleeve.

"I'm sorry," He says, and bows his head. "I don't mean to take you for granted, not any of you. I'm grateful. I just don't have anyone else to choose from. It's got to be him. He has to stay."

And after that, there's nothing else to say. Brantley nods his silent acceptance, climbs to his feet and raises his hands in another prayer. When he leaves, the room seems to hollow out around the space he's left behind. It doesn't feel much like a victory.

But then, the day has only just begun. Leonel sighs, braces his hands against his knees, and pushes himself to his feet. He's not about to give up before he's even started.

 

 

The Djose shoreline is cavernous and oceanswept, worn all away by the ravages of the world. The road seems almost like a tunnel carved out from the face of the cliff, with one side left exposed to the violence of the elements—a winding path with an ancient stone ceiling and pillars all awash with salted ocean spray. A tomb absent one dimension; a cave with a horizon.

The atmosphere would be oppressive, except that Leonel won't allow it. Even the presence of fiends won't be enough to drag him down, he decides, and marches into every battle with his head high and a smile ready to be shared. "So easy!" He insists brightly, and, "You all know each other so well," and "That wasn't even close that time!". He keeps it flowing, a constant well of praise that refuses to empty, and when someone compliments him back he ignores the _Lord Summoner_ of it all and takes the gesture for what he wants it to be—progress, at long last.

It takes until the early afternoon before Solus has to try and ruin it.

"Cos, you're doing—" Is as far as Leonel gets before Solus wheels around on him. His cousin's lip is curled, and the glint in his eyes doesn't carry the faintest hint of warmth.

"Save it," He snaps, and then his lip curls back further into that stupid vicious smile that Leonel remembers sharply from their childhood. "If you want someone to pat your ass and tell you what a good job you're doing, go home."

" _What?_ " Leonel blasts back before he's given himself a chance to think, and by the time his answer echoes off the rock face it's too late to slow down and play it cool. Trust fucking _Solus_ to make him break character. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've—"

" _Save it_ ," Solus interrupts him again, this time a low impatient growl undercutting his words, and then his cousin turns back to the road and marches onward. Like nothing at all changed between them last night, and he's just going to carry on being the same selfish self-absorbed jerk he's always been, consequences be damned. Just the same as always.

His other guardians are still gathered close around him. "I need to speak to my cousin privately." Leonel tells them, as though they're waiting for his instruction. "Give us some space."

He only has to jog forward a few paces to bring himself in line with Solus; not far behind them, four sets of armoured heels strike into formation. Leonel grits his teeth and sets himself to Solus's pace, breathing slow and deep and considering what he needs to try and say. Maybe his fists want this to be an argument, but the rest of him knows better.

Last night Solus had been dressed down; now his cousin has returned to his usual black armour, metal and leather all layered together with his sword propped high across his shoulder. His arms are swathed in fabric, his scars hidden from view. Leonel catches himself casting a self-conscious glance at Solus's wrists, wreathed in buckled bracers. Last night they had been bandaged and stained.

Leonel hasn't let himself think too much about that.

"Look," Leonel starts, and immediately Solus's body language tightens; a hard shift from defensive to attacked. Leonel doesn't have the patience for it. " _Look_ , you need to try harder to talk to them. And to me. I'm serious, cos. I've been having to stick up for you, you know."

"Of course you have." Solus spits; Leonel steps to the side with a scowl. "Am I supposed to thank you?"

"It might be a good place to start!" Leonel fires at him, and then remembers the four men following behind. How is he supposed to smooth these relationships if Solus isn't even going to try? When he speaks again he makes sure to lower his voice, firm and insistent. "I'm not trying to have a fight with you! Can't you just listen to what I'm saying for once? This is a chance for you to finally make something of yourself. Don't you want that?"

Solus looks as though he's bitten something rotted. "No."

"Why not?" As though his feckless cousin is likely to give him a real answer. Even so Leonel makes himself ask. "Why do you always make things so difficult for yourself? Just _try_ for once, would you?"

His cousin turns at that, his expression as black and violent as the Thunder Plains. For a split second it looks as though Solus is going to hit him, and a dozen teenage instincts spring back to life; Leonel flinches aside, fists halfway raised and ready to respond. Maybe Solus sees that, or maybe he's already thought better of his actions—he stares, jaw clenched, fists clenched, every part of him tight and taut and furious, and then he turns back to the road and continues his march. Behind them, the footfalls of his other guardians have fallen silent. Leonel can feel his face burning red.

_Asshole_ , he thinks, and hurries back after his cousin. _You asshole. You fucking stupid asshole._ It would have been better if Solus _had_ hit him. At least then he'd have a good excuse to smack him right back.

"Maybe I _should_ let them send you back," Leonel mutters under his breath. Solus doesn't look at him, but Leonel knows he's listening. "That's what they want, you know. To send you back to Bevelle. I keep telling them no. Do you get that? I'm defending you, and you just keep on pushing everyone away. You're making me look like an idiot. You _should_ thank me. You should get a damn grip on yourself."

Solus speaks through lips that barely seem to move; it's a sick talent he has, to make gentle words grit with such suppressed anger. "Thank you, Lord Leonel. _Leave me alone_."

This time he lets Solus walk ahead. What else can he say? What's it going to take for Solus to listen to him? If he can't get through to him _now_ , on a journey as final as this one, then—

The hand that claps down on his shoulder is firm and confident, a gesture of familiarity that startles Leonel right out of his troubled thoughts. One of his guardians, anonymous in steel but somehow seeming friendly; the man gives him a little shake, and Leonel thinks he can hear humour in the voice that speaks to him. "Keep your eyes on the road in front of you, Lord Leonel." It's the gruff tone of an older man; Javel, it might be. "Worry about the future when you get to it."

It's unsolicited advice, and for a summoner travelling on his pilgrimage it seems almost ironic. Leonel barely has a future left to be worrying about, and if he doesn't consider it now then he may not get another chance. But it's a personable behaviour, one that seems intended to comfort him, and despite everything Leonel feels something in his chest swell with gratitude. He's been longing for this, hasn't he?

"I'm sorry about him," Leonel says, maybe just loud enough that Solus might hear him and have the decency to feel ashamed. "One step at a time, right? Let's get moving."

And he grins, and takes it to heart. One step at a time. Tomorrow, he'll make someone _else_ laugh.

 

 

It's twilight by the time they find themselves gathered at another Al Bhed rest stop. Leonel still remembers the reception of his monk guardians the last time he had suggested staying in such a place, but this time he finds them agreeing without complaint. Maybe they suspect their concerns would be ignored, or maybe it's just been a long enough day that no one can be bothered to care any more. Whichever it is, Leonel's grateful for the ease of it.

The view out front is like nothing he's seen before, so much so that he can't help but stop and stare. Stars have blanketed the skies like so many familiar fireworks, and he's not sure he's ever seen the cosmos look so clear as this. It makes him think of the old legends of Zanarkand. They had called it the City that Never Sleeps, and it was said that even in the blackest part of night the horizon had been burnt aglow by the city's endless light.

It was because of that irresponsibility, that hubris, that Sin had come to Spira. But when Leonel looks out across the ocean and sees that reflection of stars, he finds it hard to imagine how such a city couldn't have been beautiful.

It probably doesn't get much more sacrilegious than that. Leonel puts his thoughts away beneath a weary smile and leads his guardians inside.

  


This time Solus has nowhere else to escape to. Even so his cousin insists on taking a room all to himself, and then when the Al Bhed proprietor tries to suggest an alternative Solus doubles down on his demand. Leonel feels just about ready to let his selfish embarrassing cousin sleep outside in the dirt but then one of his other guardian's steps in. It's the last thing Leonel expects. 

"How many rooms do you have available?" He asks, and when the proprietor says just two his guardian replies that that will be fine. "Solus, go ahead and take one," The monk says, and Solus doesn't even hang around long enough to show gratitude before he's stalked out of the common room and away toward his sleeping quarters.

Afterwards, in a room with four beds and five men, Javel takes off his helmet and dips his head to Leonel in something like an apologetic shrug. "Forgive this, my Lord Summoner. This is no way for a man of your standing to be treated."

"Not at all!" Leonel laughs, and wishes he could express everything he likes about this. How he'd always imagined that this sort of masculine familiarity would have been a comfort to have around; that this must be normal for an order of warrior monks and maybe Solus has always been the lucky one for getting to live like this. To be surrounded by like-minded people, men with similar lives and similar means. How being cramped into one room like this actually makes him feel a little like he's surrounded by friends and equals, not brave strangers waiting for their time to die. "This is fine. I mean, we can make this work, can't we? Look, if Solus wants to sleep in there by himself then that's his dumb business, but he sure doesn't need four beds worth of blankets. I'm gonna go get some. If someone's got to have the floor then we can at least make sure it's comfortable."

Javel laughs back with him—Leonel can feel the relief of it rising to his face like flowers in bloom. The warmth of that embarrassment has him smiling all the way out the door and down the hallway but by the time he's thumping his fist on Solus's door he almost has his dopey grin back under control.

Not quite, though. When Solus yanks the door open his expression is already sour, and it only seems to curdle all the more when he sees who's knocking. "What?"

It's amazing what a small difference company can make. Solus's room is almost identical to the one he's just left, but with only one person to fill the spaces between each bed the place seems cavernously lonesome. "Come and stay with us," Leonel finds himself saying, just because it seems like the right thing to do. Even if he already knows the answer, at least this way he'll be able to say he tried.

Solus doesn't even pause to consider. "No."

And there doesn't seem to be much point arguing with that. "Give us blankets then," Leonel replies, and when Solus's expression goes a shade blanker he clarifies; "Someone's sleeping on the floor. You don't need four beds all to yourself. Give us some of those blankets. 

"Take whatever you want," Solus tells him, so Leonel does. The entire time he's filling his arms with thick patterned wool he can feel Solus watching him, his scowl as repellent as the shell of any stalking fiend, and when Leonel's finally finished gathering the bundle in his arms his cousin snorts and jerks his head back toward the open door. "Get out."

 

 

Sleeping comes easy for a change. Has he had a real full night of sleep since starting this pilgrimage? Leonel takes one of the beds because his guardians insist on nothing less, and by the time he's stripped down to underclothes and crawled beneath the blankets it's all he can do to wish his companions good rest.

Sleep. He's needed sleep. Since the Thunder Plains, since Guadosalam, the Moonflow, Djose—he hasn't rested well through any of them. Even his last night in Bevelle had been plagued by nervous imaginings and so much expectation. He needs this sleep.

_You promised_ , a voice tells him, and Leonel brushes the words away. Too abstract, too distracting. He's resting now, just wants to be left alone.  _You_ **_promised_ ** _,_ the voice says again, more insistent this time, and maybe it's familiar. Maybe it's Bevelle, the weight of Bevelle and all its history bearing down on him.

Maybe it's something he should know.

**_Leonel!_ ** it yells inside him, and Leonel's eyes fly open just as the man standing over him lunges downward.

What happens next is so sudden that later he thinks he must have only been acting on instinct. Leonel ducks, almost cringing down beneath the covers, and the pillow above his head erupts into a expulsion of chocobo feathers. The man—too shadowed for Leonel to recognise a face _—_ utters an astonished curse, sounding almost as terrified as Leonel suddenly feels, and then Leonel throws his hands up in front of himself and fills the air with fire.

Thunder would have been the smarter choice. He doesn't know what it is that brings flame to his fingertips so naturally. But the air in front of him ignites, lighting the room in a catastrophe of leaping shadows, and then the man has dropped his blade and is clutching his face, ablaze and screaming. Leonel scrambles back and away across the bed, aware that there are other men in the room, and the thought of calling one of his aeons is all over his lips but there's no room here to do such a thing, so he calls the only other name that springs to mind.

"Solus!"

But Solus isn't here. One of the shadowed men turns and barrels out of the door, and by now Leonel can hear the sounds of Al Bhed voices yelling from somewhere else in the building, their confusion loud and apparent even without translation. The man who first attacked has dropped to the floor, the last vestiges of flame still clinging around his body like lingering pyreflies. He isn't dead, but Leonel thinks he will be.

He's still on the damn bed, the mattress soft and billowy and completely lacking any purchase. Leonel rolls across the blankets and hits the ground on his feet, his hands still held out in front of him. He's sure he must be panicking but for some reason his body is calm, prepared to fight as if this were just another inconvenient fiend attack. Except that these are men in front of him, living breathing human men, and as Leonel watches one of them ducks down and retrieves the discarded blade. It glints in the dark, reflected embers dancing along the metal.

Between them, groaning, lies the burnt man. Leonel could heal him, he knows. But not while that knife is still hovering there, clutched by an unknown hand. The air feels almost too hot to breathe. Maybe he's panicked after all.

"This isn't personal," The man in front of him says, and then he strikes. Leonel staggers back but it's wall right behind him and he finds himself desperately ducking left, crashing almost immediately into another bedframe. Behind him his assailant is lunging again, and Leonel can't keep this game of cat and mouse alive for long, and his palms are almost itching from the heat that wants to pool there. But he can't stand it, not when he can still _smell_ what that fire can do to a man, and when he lashes out again it's the very opposite element that answers him.

The ice is blunt, not jagged—a frozen boulder that launches across the room. Leonel doesn't _see_ it hit his target, but he hears the heavy crunch of impact and the shocked, winded gasp that follows. Once more he sees the blade fall against the ground, but this time he's prepared for that, diving down to grab it before anyone else can—

But there's one other attacker still in the room, and when Leonel feels a hand grasp tight into his hair and yank him back he doesn't have a chance to respond before he feels another knife pressed hard against his throat. The fist in his hair tightens, the other arm wrapping around his shoulders to keep the blade held firm to his neck, and even though it's all moving so fast he still manages to understand what's happening to him.

He's about to die.

The moment seems suspended in its harshness. He can't breathe, as if even one sallow motion will be enough to see his skin split open against the knife edge. He's shaking, though he's never been more desperate to remain still. It seems like he should say something, beg or question or try to explain who he is, but the words are frozen behind that blade and won't dare to creep any further. The voices outside the room are growing louder, closer. And then the door crashes open, and the room is pierced by light.

After the darkness even torchlight seems glaring, and Leonel winces back from it despite himself, back against the body of the man holding him at knifepoint. In the doorway is a figure with a sword, but with light pouring in behind him he's only another backlit shadow, unintelligible—until he sweeps his sword down and barrels into the room, cleaving himself a path where there wasn't one before. The icestruck man barely turns before Solus almost cuts him clean in two, and by _then_ the man holding Leonel seems to have completely forgotten himself, his grip going slack from the shock of what he's seeing, and Leonel takes his chance and grabs the blade.

It cuts into his fingers, cuts so deep that he can feel the trickle of it running down his arms and into the bend of his elbows, but even then it doesn't hurt and Leonel refuses to let go, tearing at that grip with everything he has. When Solus rounds on them Leonel hasn't broken free, but he's done enough to keep himself alive—he pitches forward, halfway dragging his assailant over with him, and then Solus's sword plunges over Leonel's shoulder and into the man behind him. The arm that's still around his shoulders tightens and then spasms away, the body still pressed against his back jerking violently before suddenly falling free. Unburdened, Leonel hits the ground hard and kicks himself away, crossing the floor in a tangle of limbs before coming up against the opposite wall.

And around him, broken, seared and bleeding, lies chaos.


End file.
